


Farmer's Market Solas

by RogueLioness



Series: The DA Alternate Universe Chronicles [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Blow Jobs, Doggy Style, F/M, Fluff and Smut, NSFW, Oral Sex, Outdoor Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Semi-Public Sex, Shameless Smut, Smut, Table Sex, the Solas we all want
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-20
Updated: 2020-07-20
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:08:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 13,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25393627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RogueLioness/pseuds/RogueLioness
Summary: A series of smutty Solavellan drabbles originally on Tumblr.
Relationships: Female Lavellan/Solas, solavellan - Relationship
Series: The DA Alternate Universe Chronicles [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2036974
Comments: 28
Kudos: 47





	1. Apples

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fruit has never looked quite so appealing before.

It is mid-morning by the time Lavellan finishes setting up her stall at the Skyhold Farmer’s Market. Her harvest had been particularly bountiful this time, and she has no doubt that by the end of the day, she would return home with empty baskets. For Lavellan is a familiar fixture at the Market, well-known for the organic fruit she grows, and her produce is much sought after.

She wonders if _he_ will come. 

She hopes he does.

She is so busy helping out another customer she fails to notice his presence. After sending them off, she turns to him, a bright smile plastered on her face. Her palms are sweaty, and she wonders if her face is red. He is dressed casually in a simple plaid shirt, sleeves rolled up to the elbows exposing tanned, wiry, muscular forearms. His dark wash jeans are well-fitted, and she has the sudden urge to place her hands on those tapered hips and see how they fit against hers. 

If she wasn’t red before, she’s pretty sure she is now.

“Hello there,” she greets. “Solas, isn’t it? It’s nice to see you again!” As soon as the words are out, she regrets them. Is she being too forward?

His voice is smooth, silky, making her think of fingers dipped in chocolate fondue. “Likewise. I hope you have been well?”

“Oh yes,” she hates that she sounds like a besotted fool, “my garden has been coming along very nicely.”

“So I see,” he remarks, reaching down for an apple. Her throat goes dry as his fingers, long and elegant, wrap around the red fruit with a certain kind of delicateness. 

She wonders how they would feel on her breasts. Imagines those slender fingers plucking gently at a nipple, before he sucks it in between those wonderful, plush lips…

“These are very good,” he comments, and she gives herself a little shake. “I’m sorry?” she clears her throat, feeling as though her face is on fire. “I didn’t quite catch that.”

“I said, the apples are very good,” he repeats, his lips twisted up into a smirk. The look he is giving her is knowing, and there’s something in there that causes heat to pool deep in her stomach.

“I, ahhh… thank you,” she babbles.

“I think I will take a dozen,” he says. “Would you mind if I choose for myself?”

“Of course,” she has no idea what she’s saying, all she can think of is how the flecks of silver in his ocean-blue eyes catch the sunlight and sparkle.

“Thank you. That is very kind,” he gives her a quick wink, and she nearly faints.

“N-n-no p-problem,” she stammers.

Her mind is a jumble as she watches him select the fruit; though she knows it is insane, _they’re just fruits after all_ , she can’t help but find the way his fingers run over the smooth skin, the way he weighs each apple in the palm of his hand, the way his forehead furrows just the tiniest bit as he scents each apple. Even the rejected fruit get a delicate treatment from him, his fingers gently and carefully returning them back to the pile.

His hands are going to drive her crazy.

 _He_ is going to drive her crazy.

She’s silent as she bags the fruit he’s selected. She can’t help the small shudder that goes through her when their hands brush against each other as she hands him his purchase.

His fingers feel so soft, like satin, but she has no doubt that they have a great deal of strength.

“I hope you enjoy them,” she says, her voice ever so slightly scratchy - unsurprising really, considering how dry her throat is - and there’s a pang of disappointment when he turns to leave.

Her heart beats faster when he turns back to her. 

“I do not suppose you would be interested in sharing these with me?” his tone is polite, but she thinks the sultry look in his eyes should be illegal; she wants to melt under it.

“I-I-… I would love to,” she stammers, cheeks aching with how wide her smile is.

“Good.” He pulls out his wallet, and takes a business card out from it. “Do you have a number I can reach you at?” His smile is brazenly flirtatious, and she feels the tip of her ears heat up.

“Yeah, here, let me give it to you-” She digs through her purse and pulls out a business card, quickly jotting down her personal number at the back. When she’s done, she nearly throws it at him in her excitement.

He takes it from her in a smooth, fluid motion, flipping the card between his elegant fingers with a practiced grace to look at what she’d written. “Well then,” he drawls. “I will call you tonight, if that works for you?”

She nods.

His lips pull sideways into a smirk, filling her mind with all sorts of ideas - all of them most definitely _not_ safe for work. “I look forward to enjoying the… _juiciness_ … of your delectable fruit with you. A final quick wink, and he’s walking away, leaving her rooted to the spot, utterly speechless.

And intensely aroused.


	2. Strawberries

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daydreaming during a dinner date.

“ _Are you free this Friday?”  
_

_“Yes, I believe so.”_

_“Excellent. I would like to invite you over for dinner. Would you be comfortable with that?”_

_“Hmmm, I don’t know. Are you secretly a murderer?”_

_“No, but I cannot promise I will not be tempted to eat you. *laughs*”_

_“….”_

_“Neria? Are you there?”_

_“… yes. Sorry, I, ummm… I thought I heard someone at the door.”_

_“So, how about it? Dinner at seven, my place?”_

_“Works for me.”_

_“I’ll text you the address.”_

_“Perfect. See you on Friday, Solas.”_

_“Until Friday, Neria. I cannot wait.”_

She smooths out the skirt of her dress nervously. He hadn’t told her what kind of meal it was going to be, so she erred on the side of caution and decided on a classic little black dress. The lack of sleeves shows off her lithe, tanned arms, and between the hem that hits her just above the knee and her high heels, her legs look like they were a million miles long.

Adjusting the bottle of wine in the gift basket one last time, she knocks on his door. He responds promptly, and she forgets the greeting on her lips when she sees him. He is wearing a grey shirt - the same color, she thinks idly, as the flecks in his blue eyes - with the collar loose, paired with crisply ironed black slacks.

He looks long, lean, and lethal.

He is _luscious_.

“Hello,” he says politely, an appreciative glint in his eye as he looks her over.

“Hey,” she replies, cheeks faintly pink under his gaze. “Here, this is for you,” she hands over the wicker basket, “my peach tree is overloaded. The wine’s an Antivan vintage, I hear it pairs well with everything.”

“Thank you, this was unnecessary,” he answers, swinging the door open wider to let her in.

“Oh, it was nothing,” she smiles.

“Would you like a drink first, or the grand tour?”

“A drink, please.” Something to keep her hands - and lips - occupied while she is in such close proximity to him.

“Of course. I happened to pick up a wonderful pear wine yesterday; would you care to try it?”

“That sounds wonderful.”

The wine glass is elegant, the stem covered in vines and leaves. The vintage itself is sweet and crisp, and she enjoys how smooth it feels as it travels down her throat.

“Come, I’ll show you around,” he holds a hand out to her. She places her hand in his, and he draws her closer, tucking her arm into his elbow. This close, she can smell the cedar of his cologne and the musk that is him and wholly him. It is intoxicating, and she debates the propriety of leaning in close and sniffing him out.

She resists.

His apartment is breathtakingly stunning; a penthouse condo with wall-to-wall windows offering a stunning view of the Frostbacks, fireplaces with elegant marble mantles, rugs of the softest bear hide she’s ever felt. The walls are covered in paintings, each one meticulously done and intricate in its details, and she is surprised to hear that they are his own work. The furniture is all clean, modern edges; simple, but she knows quality when she sees it.

He saves the bedroom for last, and she’s not quite sure how to breathe.

The bed is large, long enough to accommodate his height, and is meant to be the centerpiece of the room, but that isn’t what catches her eye. It is the nook tucked away by the window, with bookshelves adorning the walls, and a window seat at the base. It is something so beautifully indulgent, and it makes her want to curl up among the cushions and read. She tells him as such, and he chuckles. “Perhaps one day, hmmm?” he says, a twinkle in his eye.

“I’ll hold you to that,” she murmurs, taking a sip from her glass.

Dinner is a simple, but elegant affair. He’s clearly shopped at more than just her stall, the vegetables fresh and full of flavor. The filet mignon is pan seared with herb butter, and practically melts in her mouth. They converse about her work, and his - she is not unsurprised to hear that he is a well-known artist - and between the food, and the wine, and the intoxicating presence of a man who is all charm and wit and masculine essence, she is bedazzled.

“How do you feel about dessert?” he asks, once they are seated on the plush sofa in front of the fireplace, where a cheerful, crackling fire burns.

She laughs. “I believe you mentioned apples?”

“Ahh, yes,” his look is one of mock regret, “Unfortunately, a friend found your apples immensely appealing and claimed them for herself.”

“Oh?” Her heart sinks at _herself_ ’. Does he have a woman in his life already?

“Yes,” he says easily. “Mythal is my publicist and manager, and immensely fond of apples. She claimed yours are the best she has ever tasted, by the way.”

She turns pink. It is as though he has read her mind. “T-that’s… umm, tell her I’m flattered she thinks so.”

“I will,” he grins, wide and warm. “To make up for their absence, I hope strawberries will do. Sylaise had some left over from her wine-making, and I promise you these are very good indeed.”

“Well, if you say they’re good,” she laughs, “they must be. You do have excellent taste in fruit, after all.”

He places a bowl of the ripe, red fruit on the table, and another filled with whipped cream on the side. She swallows lightly as she sees the tips of his fingers stained red with their juice.

She wants to suck them clean, one digit at a time.

His eyes are knowing as they meet hers, as he reaches across and picks one up by its delicate stem. His fingers grip the fruit in a firm, yet gentle grip, enough force to keep it from falling back into the bowl, but not so much that he crushes it within his grip. A part of her is disappointed; she wants him to press the fruit between those long, elegant fingers, wants to see the ruby red liquid flow down his hand. She wants to run the tip of her tongue up from his wrist, and drink the juice from his palm.

She wants… she wants _him_.

“Go ahead, please. Try one.” He’s bitten into the fruit now, lips stained garnet, berry juice dripping from the corners of his mouth. There’s a tiny bit of whipped cream on his upper lip, and his tongue flicks out and cleans it in a fluid motion.

Her mind is in shambles.

Her gut is a long, single, tightly-wound coil of lust.

Hand shaking, she reaches out for the fruit, and bringing it to her lips, bites into it. The sweetness of it spreads immediately across her tongue, and it lingers even when she swallows. She can feel the stickiness of the juice around her mouth, and hopes she doesn’t look too messy.

She gazes up at him, meaning to compliment the fruit, but his pupils are wide now, dark and feral, and there’s something terribly primal about the way his eyes are fixed on her mouth. She bites down on her lower lip, and the soft growl he lets out has a small gush of wetness flood her underwear.

“Solas?” she asks, her voice little better than a mewl.

“You have a little something-” he leans in close to her, and for a second, their breaths mingle, the scent of strawberries ripe in the air. Then his mouth comes crashing down on hers, and he’s devouring her, and she can’t help but let him because he’s so good, and he tastes like berries and heaven, and she wants _more_ …

He pulls back slightly, his lips curled up into a wanton smirk. “Shall we continue this elsewhere?” he asks.

She mirrors his look, her eyes lighting up with mischief. “Lead the way.”


	3. Oranges

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Breakfast the morning after.

Sunday morning dawns, the sky overcast, cotton-candy gray clouds gracing the earth with a light drizzle. The weather is perfect for the mood, she thinks, curled up against the side of a devilishly handsome man, the skin-to-skin contact warming her more than the soft blanket covering them. Lavellan shifts slightly, the curve of her ass brushing against his hip. He rolls to his side, one arm wrapping around her and pulling her flush against him, her back to his chest. He nuzzles the crook of her neck, and she sighs dreamily, the sensation bringing back memories of the night they had spent together, tangled in each other’s limbs.

“Good morning,” his voice rumbles through her, and she can almost hear the smirk. 

“Mmmm,” she replies, reaching behind her to stroke his ear from lobe to tip, grinning to herself at the sudden hissed intake of breath.

“You are a wicked, wicked woman,” he mutters into her ear, his teeth capturing the tip, lightly tugging at it, causing an arrow of arousal to shoot straight to her loins.

“Not when compared to you,” her voice breaks on a sigh.

Solas laughs, and lightly kisses the top of her head. “As much as I would like to continue this, I think I should feed you first.”

She moves and sits up to look at him, the sheets held up by the swell of her breasts. His gaze drops to her chest, and there’s a hunger there that reflects her own. “Well, I _am_ hungry,” she purrs.

His grip on her waist tightens as his eyes darken. For a moment, she’s certain she’s won, but he shuts his eyes and huffs, shaking his head, a rueful smile on his lips. “You really _are_ wicked,” he complains, before shooting her an amused look. “Food first,” he states and rolls of the bed. 

She takes the opportunity to admire his lithe figure, watching how the length of his back roll as he stretches his hands over his head. Though his form is slender, there is strength there, evidenced by the way his muscles are outlined. His ass is perfect, she thinks, tight and firm, blushing as she spots the reddened imprints of her nails. His thighs are a work of art, toned and wiry, and she knows how they feel under her, how they tense and clench as he finds his release, how much power they hold when he thrusts into her.

She’s just had him a few hours ago and yet she wants him _again_.

She wonders if this is how depravity feels like.

He is at ease with his nakedness, crossing the room to get himself a pair of pajamas. She’s disappointed when he pulls it up, hiding his wonderful posterior from view. He tosses her a robe, the soft cotton almost like sating under her fingers. “The bathroom is that way if you want to use it,” His smile is warm, genuine. “I will be in the kitchen. Do you have any preferences?”

“Nope. I’m fine with anything.” She really was. He could put the finest food in front of her, and she’d still be more preoccupied with him than anything else.

“Alright.” He looks so delectable, broad-shouldered and statuesque, well-built and strapping. His pants hang low on his waist, showing off the tapered v of his hips. and she wants to pull it down and free his cock and draw it into her mouth…

Solas quirks his brow at her, his eyes knowing, and she flushes. “Breakfast first,” he reminds her, chuckling to himself as he leaves the room. She grumbles under her breath, but she climbs out of the now-cooling bed anyway.

When she enters the kitchen, the scent of citrus is ripe in the air. He is juicing oranges, and she is surprised to see him working an old-fashioned hand juicer. His fingers are wrapped snugly around the halved orange - _she knows how those hands feel when they’re on her breasts, his thumb lightly circling her nipples, flicking them to hardness, driving her to distraction_ \- and his biceps stand out in stark relief as he presses the fruit into the reamer. 

Emboldened, she walks up to him, and before he can react to her presence, she takes his hand and brings it up to her mouth, running her tongue over the length of his palm, enjoying the burst of tangerine on her taste buds, then proceeds to wrap her lips around his fingers, one at a time, gently sucking them clean, her cheeks hollowing out with the motion.

He groans, the sound almost feral, and she knows she has driven him past the line. He undoes the knot of her robe, pulling it off in a hurried, jerky motion before lifting and placing her on the granite countertop, the chill of the stone a stark contrast to the heat of his hands. Her hands flail out to brace herself, and she knocks over the juicer, the sweet, tart juice of the fruit spilling over her, coating her with its flavor, perfuming the air.

His lips are on her neck, her shoulders, her jaw; he’s tasting her like a man dying of thirst. The slickness of her arousal mixes with the liquid orange, and when he delves between her legs and licks up from entrance to clit, the moan he gives is a grateful prayer to the heavens above. She can’t last long; his assault is nothing short of dedicated, and when she topples over the edge, she can feel his tongue lapping at the combined juices coating the inside of her thighs.

She feels sticky; it should be unpleasant, but there’s still heat burning in her core, unfulfilled, and so she ignores it in favor of using her legs to pull him close, trapping him between her legs. He knows what she wants - it is what he wants too, what he _needs_ , and he unsheathes himself, plunging into her depths a heartbeat after, and they cry out in unison, in relief, and when he starts moving she’s breathing in the scent of orange, till it coats her lungs and fills her blood, till she knows that she can never again look at the fruit without thinking of him, of _this._ He takes her to peak in a chorus of citrus, clean and crisp, and musk, masculine and demanding, their sweat adding hints of bitterness to the medley, and then she goes over, and she can _taste_ it on her tongue as she cries out his name.

They remain as they are for several minutes, each breathing heavily. The scent of mandarin covers them, and in a foggy, blissful post-orgasmic haze, she thinks to herself that she needs more orange trees on her farm.


	4. Pomegranate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reshaping old memories into better ones.

She’s finished tending to her orchard, and now finds herself standing in front of the six pomegranate shrubs that stands at that one lonely edge of her fields.

_Persephone was given six pomegranate seeds_ , she thinks.

But she is no Persephone, and there is no Hades. 

Not now, anyway.

The small trees are laden with fruit, ripe, their skins almost glistening in the sunlight. She wants to reach out and pluck one, rip it open in her hands, and feel the blood red juice stain her hands.

It is what he would have deserved, the man who gave her this shrub, whose fruit leaks juice the color of the innocence he stole from her.

“So, pomegranates are the way to garner your interest,” a familiar voice quips, and she turns around, startled.

“Solas!” she exclaims. _What is he doing here? How long had he been watching her?_ “What… what are you doing here?”

“As I recall, you did invite me to visit you. _At anytime_ , is what I believe you said. Would you rather I come at another time? I do not wish to impose,” his brows are furrowed, as though he is worried about his presence being a nuisance.

“Oh, not at all,” she smiles, but it is a small one, for she is still lost in the shadows of her past. “I was just… preoccupied, that’s all.”

“So I gather,” he smiles easily now. “Good memories, I hope?”

She turns back to the trees.The leaves rustle agitatedly in the light breeze, and the longer she stares at them, the more they begin to resemble limbs flailing and fighting, thrashing but unable to break free. She remembers the bed, its softness a stark, cruel contrast to the hardness and edges of the man above her; can almost feel the sharp metallic taste of blood in the back of her throat.

“Neria?” his voice is filled with concern.

She forces herself to turn away from it. “I’m sorry,” she says through clenched teeth. “Just… bad memories. I’ll get over it soon enough.” She forces a smile for him. “Shall we go into the house? I have some of those apples you so enjoy.”

He isn’t fooled. “Do you want to talk about it?” he asks gently, and that almost breaks her.

_Would I have met you then_ , she sighs to herself.

“It’s okay,” that stiff smile again. “It’s, uhhh… not very pleasant, and I would not want to burden you with it. Thank you for asking, though. It means a lot.”

“Neria.” His voice is soft, comforting, yet has a thread of command laced through it. “Come, sit with me.” She counts his steps distractedly as he walks towards one small tree, and proceeds to sit in the shade it offers. He pats the ground next to him, inviting her to join him.

He looks so kind, his pale face turned golden by the warmth of the sun, his eyes bluer than the cloudless skies above her. She wants his touch, wants him to blot out the darkness that the fruits hold within them.

She sits next to him, tentatively at first, but her fears are put to rest when he pulls her to him. His back is resting against the bark, and she slumps down so her head lies on his chest. The beating of his heart is soothing; it is a melody she will never tire of.

“Now,” he murmurs into her hair, “talk to me, _vhenan_.”

Her heart stutters, skips a beat. It is the first time he has called her that. She rears back, staring into his eyes, searching for the lie she’s sure is there, because how can someone like him have feelings for someone like her? He is famous, world-renowned, and she… she is but a simple fruit farmer.

“Do you mean that?” she whispers, holding her breath, not wanting to hope but unable to stop herself from doing so.

He smiles, crooked, unsure, and nods. “I do. You have my heart, Neria.”

Happiness bubbles, boils over, floods her. “I love you,” she slants her mouth over his, trying to share the joy she feels with him. When she pulls away, he is the most relaxed she has ever seen him; he is carefree, peaceful, and his eyes are so open she feels as though she has been afforded a window to his very soul.

“Do you trust me?” he asks, serious.

“Of course,” she kisses his cheek.

“Will you tell me what disturbs you, then?”

She hesitates, trying to gather her thoughts, then begins. She tells him of the boy of her childhood, one she called friend; how they grew up together. How, one fateful night fueled by alcohol, he pinned her down and took her maidenhead, and the way he threatened her into silence. She tells him of the pomegranate trees he ‘gifted’ to her as a reward, how she wanted to destroy them but could not bring herself to, for she was a poor farmer then, and could not afford to spurn them.

“So I kept them,” she says dully, “and each time I look at them, I am reminded of him.”

“Why do you not cut them down, then?” he asks.

She shrugs. “The fruit is in great demand. A single crop earns me more money than an entire season’s worth of apples. I… well, I have bills to pay.”

He is silent, and she fears he now sees her in a different light. It is something she is familiar with; once she speaks of her past, she is viewed as damaged goods. 

She braces herself for his rejection.

“I am so sorry something so terrible happened to you, _vhenan_ ,” he wraps his arms around her tightly, holding her as though he will never let her go. “You deserve more, so much more.” His hands move up to cradle her face. “I cannot change the past,” he murmurs against her lips, “but I can give you better memories.”

“What do you mean?” she asks, rapidly becoming breathless as his hands slip beneath the old, threadbare t-shirt she’s wearing.

But his lips capture hers, and his kiss is soft, gentle, the brush of a butterfly’s wings against skin, and she sighs. Even when he parts her lips, his tongue seeking hers, he is light, almost restrained. His hands slide to her back, stroking the dip of her spine before moving up and undoing the clasp of her brassiere. The whimper she makes as his thumbs brush across her nipples would make anyone blush, but she cannot bring herself to be silent. 

He rolls into and leans over her, pushing her slowly into the lush green grass. She thinks of the many pebbles and twigs hidden away between the blades, but it is as though her orchard is repaying the kindness she shows it, and there is nothing but softness under her back, the scent of the earth, loamy and heady, and _oh_ when did he pull her shirt off, and _creators_ his mouth, his wicked mouth is on her breasts now, suckling eagerly at one as his fingers tease its twin, and she _needs_ some friction, _any_ friction, and her hips rise off the ground seeking it, and his thigh is between her legs now, and _oh_ it’s _glorious._

His mouth goes lower now, tongue dipping into her belly button and making her giggle and squirm, before reaching the waist of her shorts, and he’s a magician, pulling it and her panties down in one fluid motion, before he settles his face between her legs. _What is he doing_ , she panics for a second, moving to sit up, but he merely looks at her and smiles, an unspoken request to _trust him_ , and oh, she does, she does, so she settles back against the trunk of the tree, cheeks bright red as she watches his tongue slide up her wet folds, and then she _cannot think_ because _it’s too much_ , each pass of his tongue makes her keen, and each time he grazes his teeth - lightly - against her clit she bucks her hips, wanting more, the ache in her core almost unbearable, and she’s _begging_ and _pleading_ and _praying_ to him because she needs something, _anything_ to fill her, she’s close, so very close, she needs just that little bit…

… and then his fingers enter her sopping cunt, first one, then a second, and the third is almost too much, but then he starts to pump them now, her hips pinned under the weight of his arm, and the pomegranates fall from the tree and shatter around them, bleeding their juices into the earth, their sweet fragrance blended with the scent of the crushed grass beneath them; her head is thrown back, eyes staring unseeingly into a sky brushed with pink and orange and purple, and it’s beautiful but the beauty of the sunset pales to that of the man whose mouth is on the very core of her, and he’s _determined_ to banish the shadows she has, for he stops before she reaches her peak, and even as she whines her complaint he reaches for the broken fruit, plucking out the fleshy seeds from within. She watches, half-dazed, as he counts them out - _one, two, three, four, five, six_ \- and slides them between her kiss-swollen lips, sealing her mouth shut with a kiss before he returns to his task…

… and soon, far too soon, he has her at the crest of the peak again, his fingers buried deep in her, his tongue wrapped around her engorged clit, and then he crooks his fingers _just so_ and bites down gently, and everything _whites out_ , there’s only pleasure, and the scent of him, and the taste of the pomegranate on her tongue, and it’s _too much, too much, too much_ , and she’s still shuddering even as she comes down from the high, trembling against his chest as he rubs her back soothingly.

It is a while before she can speak again. “Six seeds, huh?” her voice is rough, but it carries the humor she feels. “A fan of Greek mythology, I see.”

“No,” his eyes are somber, and she wonders why. He brings his hand up to her eye level, his fingers closed into a fist, and then he opens them to reveal six more seeds. “I will have you for all the year, my heart,” he smiles, and she cannot help but slide deeper into love.

She eats the seeds, willingly.

_Persephone was given six pomegranate seeds,_ she thinks, heart light and filled with love and joy as his fingers run down her body once again, _but I was given twelve, and they were perfect._


	5. Bananas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A helping hand... in more ways than one.

Summer is at its peak, the warm weather a pleasant change to the usual iciness of the Frostbacks. The sun felt glorious on her skin, the warmth seeping into her bones. She’d eschewed her usual fruit stand in favor of a more lucrative ice-cream stand, advertising sundaes made with farm-fresh fruit. It was a wise decision, she acknowledged, as she gave a quick glance over the line that had gathered in front of her booth.

“Need some help?” Solas had somehow managed to sneak his way into her booth, and she had no idea how he’d managed it.

“Creators, yes please,” she couldn’t help the frission of relief at the offer, “I think I’m in over my head here.”

“Always glad to help,” his smile is cheeky, and it lifts her spirits. “What would you have me do?”

“I’m making the strawberry sundae, would you mind taking over the banana split?”

“If you will teach me how to make them, I could take over,” his brows are furrowed the tiniest bit, and she wants to kiss the cleft away.

“What, Mr. Hot-Shot Artist has no clue how to make something so basic?” she teases, and laughing softly as he shakes his head at her.

“ _Vhenan_ ,” he chides, tilting his head ever-so-slightly at the crowd in front of their booth, and she remembers they have an audience.

“Of course I will show you, _ma lath_ ,” she composes herself. “It’s pretty simple. You take a banana-” she pulls a ripe one free from the bunch, deftly peeling away the yellow skin flecked with light brown spots, “and then you slice it in half, lengthwise,” she picks up her sharp chef’s knife and quickly splits the soft fruit, unaware of the sudden flinch her lover makes, “and then you arrange it on a plate, like so. Four scoops of ice cream - customer’s choice - between the two halves, top with whipped cream, sprinkles, and two cherries.” She presents the completed dish to him, proud of her handiwork. “Think you can do it?”

He clears his throat. “I believe I can manage.” The wink he gives her is quick, and cheeky, so very him, and she can’t help the flush that comes over her cheeks.

She works by his side, busy with her task, but keeping an eye on him to make sure he isn’t overwhelmed by what she’s asked him to do. He’s a quick learner, though, and she shouldn’t have doubted him, and between the two of them the orders are filled promptly, and soon Neria finds herself pulling the shutters down for a well-needed break.

“Goodness,” she says, leaning back against the table that serves as a countertop, “I expected customers, but not that kind of crowd!”

“Pleased?” Solas grins.

“But of course.” She pulls out a calculator from her purse and quickly tallies up the receipts. “Well. _Well_.”

“Good?”

“More than good,” she beams up at him. “Looks like I’ve made quite a tidy profit! Now I can get some more trees for the orchard, and I’ve been wanting that irrigation system, and oh, fertilizer, and maybe this time I can experiment with natural pesticides and go organic…” she trails off when she spots his amused smile. “Are you making fun of me?” she demands.

“Not at all, _vhenan_ ,” his hands are on her waist now, and he’s pulling her close till she’s flush against his chest, his cologne - the scent of cedar and pine - contrasting sharply with the sweetened, fruity scent of the bananas. “It is a cause for celebration, yes?” He nuzzles into the crook of her shoulder, gently nipping and sucking the sensitive skin there.

“Solas!” she half-hisses, half-moans. “There are people around!”

“We’re safely hidden away in this booth,” he murmurs into her ear, before running his tongue up the length of it.

“But-” she whimpers as his hands find her breast, teasing the nub into hardness, “someone- someone could hear-hear us,” she stutters.

“Then you will just have to be quiet, won’t you, _ma lath_?” she can _feel_ him smirking against her cheek, and then his mouth captures hers, and in moments she’s forgotten all about where they are. He lifts her up with ease, placing her on top of the table, uncaring of the ripened bananas that are crushed under the weight of her bottom. 

She squeals and pulls away from him. “Solas!” she chides, “you’ve ruined the bananas!”

“To the Void with them,” he mutters, sliding his hand into her hair and gripping it hard at the roots, He pulls her face back to his, using his grip on her hair to angle her till his mouth encompasses her fully, and then he _devours_ her, tongues tangled, teeth clacking, lips sucked into plumpness. 

She responds in kind, one arm around his neck pulling him closer, the other fisted in the plaid shirt he’s wearing, and he’s trapped between her legs - not that he seems to care - and she’s grinding into him shamelessly, dragging him deeper into desire, till he’s practically _growling_ into her mouth, his hands flicking and pinching and pulling her nipples till she feels like she’s losing her mind.

“So- _las_ ,” she whines, teeth tugging at his earlobe, and she smiles in triumph at his sharp intake of breath. He tugs at her jeans impatiently, not bothering to pull the zipper down all the way before yanking them off inelegantly, and then he settles back between her legs, breaking his hold on her only long enough to pull his painfully hard erection from the khaki pants he’s wearing; and then he’s running his fingers through her slick folds, hissing when he feels just how _wet_ for him she is; he can’t wait any longer, he pulls her to the edge of the table, slakes his mouth over hers, and buries himself within her, her cry of pleasure muffled by his kiss.

For a moment, they remain as they are, his head resting on the top of hers, joined to her in the most intimate way possible. The table is sticky with ice cream, and the feeling of mashed, squished bananas beneath her bottom isn’t the most pleasant thing in the world, but the way he fills her more than makes up for it. And then he starts moving, hips pumping against hers in a rapid staccato that she welcomes; he pushes her down till her back hits the table, and pulls her legs over his forearms, and _fuck_ the new angle has him hitting _that_ spot within her, and with each thrust, he takes her up, up, and her hands scramble against the slippery table searching for a grip till her fingers and arms are coated in the softened fruit, but she doesn’t care, _does. not. care_ because she’s a hawk riding the currents in the air, and then his fingers move from her waist to her core and he’s pressing his fingers against her sensitive, swollen clit, and _creators, fuck, Solas, fucking fuck_ , she flies over the edge, blood roaring in her ears, his name on her tongue, the sweet, fruity scent flooding her nose, and she’s _certain_ that the yellow fruit is the most _decadent_ of them all…

She hears the guttural groan he makes before he empties himself into her, feels the spasms of his cock against the walls of her core, and then he’s slumped over her, panting into her ear.

She bears the weight of him for as long as she can, and when he gets too heavy she pushes at his shoulders. He moves immediately, tucking away his manhood and pulling up his pants before returning to help her clean up. She looks up at him, looking both satisfied and resigned. “Guess I’m going to have to call it a day.” There’s a thought that flashes into her head, and she tries to stop herself, but it’s not possible; she must share it.

“Your banana ruined my bananas, Solas.”

He rolls his eyes and huffs as she laughs uncontrollably.


	6. Grapes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Making things better after some unkind gossip.

Aju’alasis was a small, intimate art gallery nestled close to Skyhold Castle. Neria had heard much about its owner, Mythal, from Solas. The older woman had built up the gallery from scratch, travelling across Thedas looking for aspiring artists with talent, and it was well-known that if one was lucky enough to be selected by Mythal, one was assured of a future that included fame and prosperity.

The walls are a warm cream color, with spotlights well hidden away on the ceiling. Soft, thick carpet adorns the floor, and there is a waiter moving discreetly through the crowd, offering wine to the attendees.

Neria picks a glass gratefully, for it gives her the chance to do something. She knows she does not belong in this crowd - these are the elite of Thedas, nobles with long titles and full purses, and she, in her simple cobalt gown, does not fit with the furs and the diamonds.

But Solas had requested her presence, and she loves him too much to deny him.

Glass in hand, she moves through the room, gazing at each of his paintings with rapt awe. He does not shy away from bold color, her lover, and his art is filled with passion. There is a hazy sky swirling with blues, and clouds that actually _look_ like clouds, with shadowed mountains and bright yellow fields, and she’s reminded of Redcliffe Farms, where sun smiles down on the crops. It makes her feel warm inside, like there’s a small sun shining in her chest.

She moves to the next one, where there is no crowd. A small red dot on the corner of the frame tells her that it has been sold; and, as she’s seen from the brochure she was handed at the door, his art is not cheap. But she understands why - his is a skill that is rare and beautiful, and if she had the money, she would hoard all of it for herself.

Alas, she cannot, and the thought makes her sad.

The scene is of the Elfsblood river at night, bright crystal stars decorating the velvet midnight sky, reflected in the waters. There is so much exquisite detail; the ripples in the river, the slight bend to tree branches that hints at a breeze, the blurry reflection of the sky. It is a peaceful scene, restful, and she envies the man who now owns this.

She turns her head to the side, and is immediately captivated.

There, on the far wall, hangs a single painting. She moves towards it in a daze; it calls to something deep within her. Rich, bold reds, fiery rusts and oranges and bright, glowing yellows swirl together at the base, a pool of molten lava, from which rises what looks like a figure, triumphant, head thrown back fearlessly. And yet, the darkness that surrounds it linger malevolently, as though eagerly awaiting a chance to devour the flame.

She hastily digs through the brochure. _Avise_ , it is titled simply; _tongue of flame_. But it pulls at her, tugs at something primal, and she desperately wants to own it.

_1200 inglots - starting bid_

Her heart sinks. It is an entire season’s worth of profit, money she cannot frivolously spend. She stares at it, taking it in as much as she can, memorizing the swirl and flow of colors.

“You like it?” Solas’ quiet voice hovers at her ear.

“It’s absolutely stunning,” she breathes. “It’s so… _primal._ It makes me feel like the woman in there is living, breathing; she is a warrior.”

“What makes you think it is a woman?” he asks, curious.

She shrugs. “Just a feeling, I suppose. You would know better; you are the artist after all.” She smiles warmly at him, eyes crinkling at the corners.

“You’re not wrong,” he smiles back. “This was,” he turns his gaze to the painting, “inspired by a very special muse of mine.”

“Oh? Who?” She must know. She _needs_ to know. Who is this mystery person who he was so inspired by? A sliver of jealousy runs through her.

“You.” His eyes are on her face now, an amused smile on his lips, and she knows he’s guessed her thoughts. “You, _ma vhenan_ , you inspire me. How can you not?” He raises her hand to his lips and presses soft kisses to her knuckles, and she can feel her face redden.

Behind them, voices gossip maliciously.

_“Is that his latest fling? Goodness, what does he see in that shabby little creature?”_

_“Who is she?”  
_

_“Who cares? Clearly no one important; just look at what she’s wearing. Ghastly!”_

Hot tears flood her eyes, and she bites down hard on her lip to stop them from falling. She will not give them the satisfaction of knowing that their words affected her. All her doubts and insecurities rush to the surface; _why_ is he with her? _What_ does he see in _her_? She doesn’t belong here, in his world, with all the crystalware and the fancy perfumes and expensive jewelry. She is just a simple fruit farmer.

“Excuse me,” she chokes out in a thick voice, brushing past Solas, ignoring him when he calls her name in concern. She flees blindly down the corridors, turning left and right haphazardly until she opens a random door and finds herself in a storage closet. Finally, she sinks to the floor and cries quietly to herself.

A soft knock at the door has her hastily wiping her face. She holds her breath, hoping that the intruder will go away, but the door opens to reveal Solas, his jacket missing, sleeves rolled up, tie undone. In his hands are two glasses of wine, deep burgundy liquid sloshing around the tumbler.

“Shouldn’t you be mingling with your other guests?” she bursts out. “They are more important than me,” she adds, a hint bitterly.

He calmly walks through the doorway and shuts the door behind him with a foot. “ _They_ do not concern me. _You_ do. I do not love them, I love you.” He hands her a glass, and she takes it, bemused. “To us,” he says cheerfully, “and here’s to making those silly little fleas jealous of what we have.”

She clinks her glass against his and sets it down carefully. “And what _do_ we have?” she asks cautiously.

“Love,” he says, moving closer to her, “for a start.” He brushes his lips against hers, and he tastes of the pinot noir he’s just drunk. “But more importantly,” he kisses her again, deeper this time, and she responds in kind, shifting as his mouth ignites a familiar heat within her, “we have a _future_.”

“We do?” she’s now straddling him, her dress around her hips as her legs wrap around his waist.

“We do,” he confirms, and the way he takes her lips tells her he’s not going to let her go anywhere from him, and, oh, that’s perfect, and she feels the same… he helps her pull her dress off, carefully folding it and placing it in a corner; because that’s him, he takes care of beautiful things, and now he’s touching her as though _she_ were a thing of beauty, as though she was precious, and it brings tears to her eyes.

She wants to show him how much he means to her.

She pulls him closer to her, and in a swift, rolling motion has him on his back. Frantic fingers undo the buttons on his shirt, crumpling the material in her haste; his pants are covered in flecks of dust, but neither of them cares. Finally they are bare to each other, and she gets an idea as she spots their now-abandoned glasses of wine.

“Are you thirsty, _ma’sa’lath_?” she asks her voice coy, her eyes lighting up with mischievous intent.

He is confused, but curious. “Yes,” he replies.

“Good.” She picks up the wine glass, and dribbles some of the ruby red liquid over her chest, letting it flow slowly down the slope of her breasts. A drop catches on a hardened nipple; he stares at it, his eyes dark with hunger. With a sound that’s half-groan, half-growl, he moves in, using the tip of his tongue to capture the errant droplet before dragging his tongue over her wine-moistened skin.

She repeats the action, moaning as he laps away at her skin, heat and wetness pooling between her legs until she’s a writhing mess. He’s hard against her thigh, hot and hard and pulsing, and she needs him now, needs to feel the length of him within the depths of her, and it’s with a whimper that she throws the glass to the side, neither paying any attention to the sound of it shattering against the wall. “Now,” she says, panting, whining, “please,” and then his hands are on her hips, and she rising up, and _one, two, three_ she slams herself down, filling the core of her completely and entirely, and it’s _so good_ that both of them cry out, gasping for breath. She rolls her hips, testing for pain, but there’s none; she begins to ride him, slowly at first, letting him slip out of her till his tip is just within her entrance; he’s moaning and whining under her, trying to get her to move faster, but she captures his hands and pins them to either side of his head.

“ _Vhenan_ ,” she orders, her voice hoarse, and he blinks once, twice before his eyes focus on hers. “Look at me, my heart,” she says, gentler now, as she grinds against him. “Look at me, and see the love I have for you.” With that, she begins to move again, faster this time, and she’s rising, but not fast enough; so she shifts a little, leaning in closer to his face, and _oh, sweet Creators_ , that’s perfect, _he’s_ perfect, and each time she slides him in and out of her core he’s rubbing against that spot, the one that has her mewling in pleasure.

There’s the heady scent of creamy, fruity wine, smooth and opulent and rich and refined, melding away into grape and the sweet-sharp perfume of alcohol as the pleasure builds. She fights the urge to close her eyes, trying to show him, without words, just how much she loves him; just how much he means to her; she’s no artist, she’s no poet, so she shows him her heart in the way she knows best.

They crest together, eyes open, breaths mingling, the other’s name on their tongue; she slumps against him, her chest sticky where it meets his. For several minutes, they remain as they are, even as he softens within her.

“I love you,” she says, quiet and earnest. “You know that, right?”

“I do,” his smile is of wonder and disbelief.

“Good.”

“ _Vhenan_ ,” he speaks as they dress; she turns to him with her ruined panties in her hand, a rueful smile on her face; he chuckles. “I will replace that,” he winks.

“You’d better,” she teases. “Now, what were you about to say?”

“ _Avise_ is yours.”

“Huh?”

“That painting. You inspired it, my heart; you are the one I painted. I could never give it away to anyone else.”

“But…” she stammers in disbelief, “but… there was a price, and… bidding, and…”

He sighs. “A ploy by Mythal to increase the offers on my other works. She knows it is not for sale. It belongs to you, my love.”

“Oh, Solas.” She’s crying again, but this time the tears are of joy; he knows this, and he wraps his arms around her tightly, pressing soft kisses to the top of her head.

“Your heart is my heart,” he whispers into her ear, “and my love is yours.”


	7. Peaches

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A vacation at the beach turns to more.

Treviso is such a change from the cheerful chaos of Antiva City, with its quiet, quaint seaside villages nestled among the twists and turns of the coastal road. The view is breathtaking, with its jagged cliffs and blossoming flowers. They’re staying at a private resort, exclusive, that caters to the rich and the famous. Neria’s been awestruck at several instances; she’s seen the Champion of Kirkwall and the King and Queen of Ferelden lounging by the pool at various times.

There’s a winding garden path that leads down to the beach, with its unique black sands and shimmering, crystal-clear turquoise waters. She was most impressed by the elevator carved discreetly into the rocky cliffs, that allowed guests to return to the hotel without having to trek up.

They’d been in Antiva for just over a week now, and Neria still couldn’t quite believe it. When Solas had first made the offer to her she’d laughed, thinking he was joking, but she soon realized he was serious. She’d first said no, uncomfortable with letting him pay for her, but he’d persuaded her to change her mind, and she was glad she did. This was an experience she would not trade for all the gold in Thedas. The sights, the scents, the sounds of the syllables the Antivan language made when they rolled off the tongue of the locals - they were all beautiful and priceless.

She’d always wanted to travel, but her personal responsibilities - and financial situation - had prevented her from doing so in the past. The fleeting thought of _financial situation_ puts a frown on her face, and she wonders how she can ever repay him for this. 

“I see you are overthinking again,” lips press a soft kiss to her temple, and there’s a glass of rose peach wine in her line of sight. She takes it, turning to him with a guilty smile on her face. “I can’t help it,” she confesses. “This-” she gestures to her surroundings with her free hand, “I would never have been able to afford this on my own. I… you must understand, I feel like I’m taking advantage of you.”

She expects Solas to let out an exasperated sigh, as he has done in the past whenever she brings up this subject - but instead he chuckles fondly, dipping his head to kiss her tenderly. “ _Ar lath ma_ ,” he says when he pulls away. “And knowing that you feel the same… you focus too much on money, _vhenan_ , when it is your love that is the most valuable thing in all of the world.” 

She can’t help the blush that stains her cheeks, and she ducks her head away from him, shyness overcoming her. His hand wraps around her waist, and he pulls her to him, nuzzling into her hair before planting a loud kiss on the top of her head. “Sweet talker,” she mutters, but there’s a smile in her voice.

“It is a good thing, then,” he murmurs into her ear, “that what is sweet is also true.” Lips catch the tip of her ear, and she cannot help the shudder that runs through her. 

“There is a full moon tonight,” he’s still holding her around the waist, and now he starts to sway with her, dancing to the tune the wind plays as it rushes through the trees. “Would you like to take a walk on the beach?”

“Can we?” she asks dubiously. “Isn’t it dangerous?”

“The tide is low,” he reassures her. “There is nothing to fear.”

“In that case, most definitely,” she beams up at him.

They trade their empty glasses for the gelato that Antiva is famous for - made with milk and cream, flavored with sun-ripened peaches - before making their way to the path that leads to the beach. It’s lit up now with soft lights that seem to be coming from the tiles that adorn the walkway, bright enough to guide them without being too harsh on the eyes. The golden light, combined with the scent of tropical flowers in full bloom, make for a setting so romantic it would seem absurd if it was written into a book.

The beach is empty, and there’s nothing save the quiet swell and crash of the waves onto the shore. The moon is high up in the night sky, imparting a pearly glow to everything it touches. The sand beneath her feet is soft, her toes sinking into it with each step. The air is warm, not unpleasantly so, and filled with the perfume of the peach trees that are so abundant here, and fireflies light up the jagged crags of the rocky cliff.

She sighs contentedly, at peace with herself and the world. They turn around a corner, finding themselves in a nook that’s out of sight of the main beach. She walks towards the water, giving a little squeal as the cold sea flows over her feet, and returns to his side. 

“Have you been here before?” she asks, resting against the rock face and staring up at the star-studded sky.

“Yes,” he replies softly, “but always alone.”

She looks at him then, and her breath is stolen by the love in his eyes. “ _Vhenan_ ,” she whispers, and he understands, moving to where she stands, and cradling her face between his hands. She raises herself onto the tips of her toes, flinging her arms around his neck and drawing him down to kiss him, warm and gentle, but it soon turns urgent and passionate when he delves in to taste her.

His mouth tastes of the peaches they have just eaten, and the same sweetness hangs in the air. His tongue is cold, and she gasps when he runs it up her jaw, mewling when his teeth nip at the lobe of her ear. His hands are warm as they slide down her arms, his lips burning a trail against her skin as he moves to nestle in against her pulse. He bites down, not gently, and the momentary pain is banished the next second when his tongue soothes it away.

His hands are under her dress now, fingers steadily climbing until they reach the underside of her breasts. A quick tug at her bra, and his hands are palming the supple flesh bared, thumbs flicking across her nipples which pebble eagerly at his touch. 

She thinks it’s unfair, the way he teases her. Eager to repay the favor, she slides her hand down his chest, a sharp indrawn breath when she finds him hard. She rubs him through his pants, and he groans. Then his thigh is between her legs, pressed against her center, and grinds up against her, his teeth worrying at a cloth-covered nipple as a hand dips into the waistband of her underwear. He hisses when he finds her slick and ready, and he raises his head to look at her, a question in his eyes, and she huffs impatiently - _doesn’t he know how much she wants him_ \- and slakes her lips across his, her answer in the way her tongue delves into his mouth.

He growls then, the sound igniting her blood with how possessive it reads to her ears, and he’s tugging at the hem of her dress as she’s tugging at his pants; fingers fly as they undress, their clothes strewn about carelessly. There’s a breeze now, and the scent of peach is overwhelming - it’s sweet, almost cloyingly so, with a small bite of tartness, and it’s so rich and fragrant she can feel it seep into the pores of her skin, the strands of her hair. His hands are on her hips now, thumbs rubbing circles into the indent of her hipbones, and her legs are wrapped around his, and they’re locked at the mouth when he slides into her. He stills for a moment, bringing one hand to protect her back from the rocky cliff, the other under her bottom, and then he begins to thrust, setting up a rhythm that has her mewling and whimpering, hands scrabbling at his shoulders, leaving red marks on his back.

“Touch yourself,” he demands roughly, and she knows he’s close by the way his thrusts have changed from rhythm to urgency. She reaches down to where they’re joined, fingers strumming across her clit, and then she’s sobbing out his name as her inner walls clench around the length of him; a few more thrusts and he’s moaning as he empties himself into her, his fingers spasming against her skin.

The fragrant wind cools them down as they catch their breath, and Solas lets her down gently. “I did not hurt you, did I?” he asks worriedly, examining her face for any signs of discomfort.

She grins mischievously. “Only in the best way possible,” she winks at him.

He shakes his head at her as he hands her her clothes. “Sweet talker,” he teased.

Neria sticks her tongue out at him in response.


	8. Mango

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A gift from a friend offers a new shared experience.

Neria stands in the shade of the leaves, staring up at the branches loaded with fruit. She’s never seen this kind of tree before - which isn’t strange, given that they’re not native to the Frostbacks. She’d been talking with Dorian during one of his rare visits, when he’d compared her peaches to the mangoes of Tevinter - an honor, he’d said. His dramatic gasp of horror and subsequent dismay when she’d professed her ignorance as to what they were had been comical. And of course, in typical Dorian fashion, he’d managed to find a way to send her a few saplings - _how_ he’d managed that was beyond her what with the strict agrarian trade rules and all - but she was glad he did. Each time she gazed at the five trees, tall and majestic and beautifully green, she was reminded of the warm, precious friendship they shared.

There’s a slight _click_ as the farmhouse door closes, and she turns around, smiling when she sees Solas striding towards her. His gait is arresting, his long, lithe legs moving with almost predatorial purpose. Her heart speeds up, a familiar heat gently blooming in the pit of her stomach the closer he gets to her.

“I thought I would find you here,” he says by way of a greeting, a smile on his face.

“I _am_ a farmer,” she quips, getting on her tip toes to press a kiss to his cheek. The scent of him, mingled with the loamy richness of the earth, has her intoxicated as it always does.

“So you are,” he laughs gently. His attention moves from her to the foliage she’d just been looking at. She chuckles at the double take he gives as he recognizes the yellow-orange-red fruit hanging low from the branches.

“Are those… those cannot be mangoes, can they?” he asks in disbelief.

She laughs. “They are,” she grins. “A present from Dorian.”

“Ah. Of course.”

“I take it you’ve had them before?” she asks, a hint of disappointment coating the words. 

“Actually,” he sounds embarrassed, “I have not.”

“Really? Why not?”

“I suppose I lacked the right company,” he smirks.

She sidles up to him. “And have you found the company you were looking for?” she presses herself against him, enjoying the slight hitch in his breath when he feels the pebbled hardness of her nipples against his chest.

“I believe so,” his voice is low pitched, filled with temptation, and when he catches her lip between his teeth she doesn’t hesitate in throwing her arms around his neck. His tongue soothes the sting of his teeth before he deepens the kiss, his hands on her hips as he pulls her flush against him. He tastes of peppermint; he always does, with his almost-obsession for brushing his teeth on a regular basis. She wonders, briefly, what he tastes when he kisses her, but the thought has barely made itself known before it vanishes when he slides his tongue down her jaw to that spot behind her lobe that always makes her knees go weak.

“Solas, wait, stop,” she weakly protests, even as she leans into his caresses. He nips at her jaw, almost a chastisement, but he obeys, taking a step back. His eyes narrow in hunger as they roam over her, hair disheveled, lips kiss-swollen, cheeks flushed pink. She recognizes his intent as he steps towards her again, stepping to the side to escape his clutches.

“I said wait,” she smacks him lightly on the arm.

“Do we have to?” he complains, his voice rough and harsh. It sends tingles down her spine, and heat pools between her legs.

“I thought we could maybe try a mango together?” she sounds hesitant even through the breathiness of her voice.

Softness floods his face when he sees the uncertainty in her eyes. “I would very much like that, _vhenan_.”

She smiles, relieved. “Why don’t you pick one? If I recall correctly, Dorian said that the riper the fruit, the redder it would be.”

“Then we shall hope that your memory serves you well,” he teases, and reaches up to pluck a particularly reddened fruit from a low-hanging branch. 

Neria’s kitchen is large - larger than what a woman living by herself would need - but cooking is her passion, and she adores the space. She cuts into the fruit, exclaiming as the juices drip over her fingers and onto the countertop. “That’s going to be a very sticky mess,” she groans.

“I can help with that.” He raises her fingers to his lips, licking and sucking the fragrant, sweet juices from her skin, his eyes never leaving hers.

“Solas.” Her voice is little more than a whisper. “Solas, I want to… let me…” She struggles to find the words when her brain has turned to mush.

He smirks, a look of supreme confidence and smugness filling his face, but she can’t find it in her to retort. His hand slides up her neck, to the back, and she hisses sharply as his fingers tangle in her hair. He angles her head backwards with a jerk - the roughness just the way she likes it - and his lips are on her, and now he doesn’t taste of mint at all, but the sweet, kind-of-peach-and-apricot-but-not-really taste of the mango, and she’s suddenly inordinately glad that she’s sharing this almost-cloying sweetness with him; if what they shared had a taste it would taste of sun-ripened mangoes. She’s sure of it.

His hands cup her ass, then move down her thighs before hooking around her knees, He lifts her without any effort, and their lips are still locked as Solas stumbles his way to her bedroom. They land on the unmade bed without any grace, limbs tangled together, mouths meeting with frantic need, lips creating fiery trails along exposed skin.

Solas is usually a patient, gentle lover, taking his time exploring her body; but there are times, like this, where his self control slips and he becomes demanding, rough, impatient. She loves him like this, loves knowing that she’s the reason he’s frantic. She’s too busy distracting him - and herself - with fingers wrapped around the hard length of him, stroking, sliding a thumb over his tip, spreading the pre-cum around the head; she doesn’t know she’s naked, not until Solas pulls her hand away with a growl. 

In a matter of seconds he has her flipped over; his hands pull her hips sharply into the air, and he curls over her, his chest pressed against her back.

“Breathe,” he whispers roughly, and all the air she’s inhaled escapes on the loud cry she gives out as he buries himself in her without any preamble. One heartbeat, two, and he’s moving, his hips snapping against her rump with a loud smack. She rests on her elbows, back arched, and now he’s hitting all the right spots; she whimpers, she moans, she begs and pleads, the words all just one long nonsensical sentence, but he understands the language. One hand wraps around the length of her hair, and the other starts to stroke her clit; her body tenses like a bowstring, her vision starts to go white, she’s _so close_ and she knows he is too - his thrusts are more urgent and dominating now. 

“Come for me,” he demands, pulling the tip of her ear into his mouth and sucking hard, and she _does_ ; it is rough and brutal and overwhelming in all the best ways, and she only faintly hears his guttural groan as he joins her in release.

Solas rolls to the side wrapping an arm around her waist; he makes no move to pull himself out of her, and neither does she. 

“You know,” she murmurs as languid satisfaction sets in, “I’m going to have to find a way to thank Dorian for those trees.

Solas buries his face into the nape of her neck and laughs.


	9. Melons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Distraction has never felt better.

Clear skies and balmy breezes, combined with the tranquility of the small Nevarran town of Hunter Fell, made the evening perfect. Neria waited impatiently for her lover to return from the mystery trip he said he had to make alone. 

She knew it had something to do with her birthday.

Smoothing out the skirt of the tight-fitting black dress she was wearing - a Vivienne De Fer masterpiece created solely for her, courtesy of Solas - she made her way to the mirror and checked her makeup, making sure none of the blood-red lipstick she sported had inadvertently made its way to her teeth.

The door slammed open and she spun around, alarmed. Solas had his cellphone practically glued to his ear, a deep frown creasing his forehead. He ran a hand over his head and she became concerned at his apparent agitation.

“What happ-” he lifted a finger to ask for a moment, and she fell into silence.

“It is your incompetence that has created this mess, Monsieur Francois, and I do not see why I have to suffer the consequences of it. I made the reservation well over six weeks ago, and I cannot understand why I am being asked to reschedule!”

Whatever the person on the other end of the line replied with only seemed to make him even more frustrated.

Neria watched him pace back and forth, his long, lean legs enhanced by the cut of his tailored suit pants. His tie was pulled down, his collar open, and the resulting image was… delicious, to say the least.

And she _was_ rather hungry…

Taking his elbow, she gently guided him to the plush armchair, a sudden push causing him to go off balance and fall backwards onto it.

“Wait there,” she mouthed, bidding him to remain as he was. She waited a moment to see if he would obey, pleased when he did. She made her way to the mini fridge, taking out the bowl of melon-infused whipped cream that was meant to accompany whatever idea for desert Solas had had - but she felt no remorse for repurposing it.

She returned to stand before him, sliding her fingers up his thigh to garner his attention. His gaze flew up to hers, a bemused, rather surprised look on his face.

“What are you doing?” he whispered, covering the mouthpiece of his phone.

She only grinned back at him.

Slowly, she reached behind her and pulled down the zipper of the dress, letting it slide down her body and pool at her feet. Stepping out of it, she gently nudged it to the side, then sank to her knees in front of him. At this angle, she knew that he’d be able to see the tops of her breasts, which were accentuated by the lacy push-up brassiere she’d worn. Cantaloupes, he’d once called them, perfect twin melons, and she laughed softly to herself at the memory.

His eyes widened in disbelief when she parted his legs and moved to settle herself between them.

She drew lazy patterns on his inner thighs, teasing him, enjoying the way his muscles tensed at her touch. She could feel the strength in them, taut as they were.

“ _Vhenan_ ,” he began, his voice the slightest bit raspy, before the phone call took his attention away.

She took the opportunity to unzip his pants, pulling his cock gently out of its confines. He was already half-hard, and when she looked up at him and licked her lips, he swore softly.

Dipping a finger into the sweet-scented cream, she scooped up a dollop and brought it to her mouth, sucking her finger clean, a knowing smirk on her face. Returning to the bowl, she took a second scoop, this time smearing the white cream over his tip and down his length, repeating her actions till his cock was almost completely covered in it.

“What a wonderful gift,” she murmured, flashing him a bright smile and a quick wink before she dipped her head and licked a stripe up the length of him.

Solas threw his head back and groaned loudly.

“I’m sorry, could you,” his voice was shaky, “could you repeat that please?”

“Of course,” she replied innocently, fully aware it wasn’t directed at her. She licked him again, this time swirling her tongue around his tip, gathering up the sweetness that coated him.

She could hear his breathing pick up, revelled in the way his fingers gripped the armrest.

She wanted more.

She took the tip into her mouth slowly, flicking her tongue against the head, enjoying the way his hips shifted against the cushions, the desperation now lacing his voice as he tried desperately to continue the conversation.

_Well, that wouldn’t do_ , she thought to herself.

She took him into her mouth, inch by inch, till her nose was pressed against his groin and his cock hit the back of her throat. It made her want to gag, and she did, a little, but she soon overcame it.

He swore again, violently. “I have an urgent matter to tend to,” he rasped out into the phone, “We will settle this later.” Without waiting for a reply, he hung up, and Neria smirked victoriously at him.

“ _Ma lath,”_ he panted. “ _Please_.”

“Please what?” she feigned ignorance.

“ _More. Please, more_.” he begged.

She obliged, wrapping her hand around him and using her thumb to spread the precum that had gathered there over and around his tip. She slid her lips down his length, one hand at the base, the other stroking and teasing his inner thighs before gently cupping his sac. Satisfied that she now had his full attention, she began to fuck him in earnest, her hand pumping and twisting in that way she knew drove him insane, while she sucked at him, tongue flicking and teasing. 

Solas’ grip on the chair was so tight now, his knuckles were white. His head was thrown backwards, the tendons of his neck corded and standing out in stark relief, and he began to lift his hips to pump into her. She let him set the pace, waiting till his strokes became erratic, and she knew he was close.

Without warning, she took the length of him fully into her mouth, the tip of him down her throat, and swallowed, her muscles tightening and relaxing around his head. Solas shouted incoherently in pleasure, spilling down her throat, hips thrusting against her face as he came. 

He pulled out of her, and she leaned forward to lick the small trail of cum hanging. She let the bitter-salty taste linger on her tongue for a moment, before swallowing it.

She licked her lips in satisfaction and smiled languidly up at him.

The next moment, she found herself flat on her back, her lover looming over her. “Oh, we’re not done,” he growled.

“Happy birthday to me,” she purred.


	10. Apple Pie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Baking together has its advantages.

“I have the fruit,” she hears the _thump_ of the bag as the fruits hit the countertop. “What should I do next?”

She’s got sugar and cinnamon measured out in bowls, and there’s flour on her nose and cheek from when she brushed her hair out of her face. “Ummm, could you dice them up for me while I finish making the pastry?”

“Of course.”

They work side by side, their playful banter making for a cheery atmosphere. Solas teases her about having more of the flour on her than in the pastry she’s carefully rolling out, and she retaliates by flicking flour at his face, speckling his head with white.

She lines the pie tin, and waits for him to finish his task. Watches the way his long, elegant fingers grip the handle of the knife, and how he sinks the blade into the apples - with strength, and precision.

It isn’t surprising her mind wanders down other paths.

She moves to the other side of him, away from the hand that bears the sharp instrument, and lifts herself up onto the counter. _Thud, thud, thud_ , the blade hits the cutting board in a steady rhythm.

She waits till he puts the knife down, and strikes as he reaches for a cloth to wipe his hands.

She grabs a fistful of his shirt, and yanks him closer. Presses her mouth to his, and takes, greedily. He’s only too willing to give; one hand moves to her hip, holding her in place, as the other slides up her sides, his fingers wrapping around the back of her neck as he gives her what she demands, even as he takes what he needs.

She pulls away unwillingly, slightly out of breath. “I need to make the filling-”

“Later,” he murmurs, dipping his head down to hers, but she laughs and ducks out from his grip.

“They’ll turn brown! Come on, help me - the sooner we get this into the oven the faster we can do other things.” She winks at him, a cheeky smile dancing on her lips.

He grumbles under his breath, but complies, arranging the applies on top of the pastry ( _no, Solas, you can’t just dump them all in, you need to be neater than that!_ ) and watches as she covers the fruit with a pretty lattice of pastry.

The pie goes into the oven, the timer sets, and she turns back to him with a wicked gleam in her eyes that makes his blood thrum in anticipation. She walks towards him, forcing him to back up until his back hits the counter. He’s eagerly waiting for her kiss, but all he receives is a light brush of her lips against his.

And then she sinks to her knees.

“Keep an eye on the oven, will you,” she murmurs, as she unzips his jeans and pulls them down. “I don’t want it to burn,” and then she leans into him, and slides her tongue around his balls.

He swears, loudly, and brings his hands to her head. She looks up at him, tendrils of hair escaping the bun on her head and falling around her face, her lips shining wet as she licks them. 

“Don’t. Let. My. Pie. Burn.”

Her hands are on him now, stroking up and down, coaxing him to full - almost painful - hardness as she waits for his response.

“I won’t,” he manages to croak out, and she nods, satisfied.

Her mouth wraps around the tip of him, tongue flicking over his head, and it takes every inch of his self-restraint to not buck into her, to push the length of him into the wet warmth. She pleasures him with a dedicated enthusiasm, sliding down the length of him slowly, then back up again at the same pace, pulling away to place soft kisses on his balls, rubbing the very tip of her tongue along his frenulum.

She does so enjoy the sounds he makes.

“How’s the pie looking, my love?” She’s got a hand around his balls now, thumb stroking their shape softly, the flat of her tongue on the underside of his now-weeping cock.

“It’s-ah, _Neria, Neria please_ \- it’s fine, _please, my heart, stop teasing me-”_

She loves him this way, aroused and desperate, for her.

She gives him what he wants.

She takes him fully into her mouth again, his head bumping against the back of the throat, but the discomfort is worth it for the strangled shout he lets out as he bucks his hips. She moves her free hand up to where his is resting, behind him on the surface of the counter, and threads her fingers with his.

That’s his cue, their shared signal to let the other know to take what they need.

It’s with a whimper that he starts to thrust into her, one hand linked with hers, the other on the back of her head, She encourages him with her tongue, coaxing him to fall apart - _for her_ \- and he does, his hot, bittersweet spend spilling into her throat, and she pulls back so the last of his seed falls onto her tongue.

She has never been a fan of swallowing, but she loves him, and she’s always curious to know if he tastes the same each time she takes him in her mouth.

He does.

Through the salt-stickiness, he tastes of love.

She stands up, allowing him to draw her into a kiss. “I did not hurt you?” he asks, his gaze filled with concern.

“Not at all,” she reassures him. The faint scent of something burning reaches her nose.

“ _Fuck!”_ she exclaims. “The pie!”

Solas chuckles, and she swats his chest. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick note: the first time I posted this I has someone complain about how baking times are long (longer than oral sex, for sure). I'm gong to put this down to magical ovens in Thedas ;)


End file.
